Monday, June 16, 2014

"Happy belated anniversary to me," he mumbled morosely.

Let's talk about me.

(I don't appreciate the sarcastic tone in his voice.)

Last Friday, a commenter pointed out that it was my blog's seventh anniversary. I hadn't realized this, much to my chagrin, because if I had I might have taken the opportunity to announce my retirement and go out on a high note:

Alas, I've now missed my window, so instead I'll just muddle through as my blogging career moves into its unfortunate "Radio Shack phase" and I continue to alienate people until I'm reduced to an island of loneliness and regret:

In the best case scenario, this won't involve an ill-advised move to Portland in which I wind up living underneath the Hawthorne Bridge and heckling bike commuters directly because I can't afford Internet access.

Nevertheless, in defiance of the entropy to which we all must invariably surrender, I mustered up the denial to engage in a "celebratory" Friday afternoon bicycle ride:

I'd have shattered the Strava record for this climb, but it's hard to get out of the saddle and lay down the power when you're using one hand to pat yourself on the back.

I also saw a snake:

A couple of questions for the naturalists out there. Is this snake:

a) Dangerous;
b) Alive?

I'm not a herpetologist*, so not only do I have no idea what kind of a snake this is, but I also don't know if it was just lying there because it was waiting to spring into action and latch onto my face with its jaws, or because a car had just run over its head.

*[A herpetologist is someone who studies amphibians and reptiles, not the person who breaks the news to you a few weeks after your ill-advised liaison with Mario Cipollini.]

As it turned out, I'd timed my ride perfectly, because the clouds that had been sitting over the city for the past week were just beginning to burn off, and the intense thunderstorm that would blow in a few hours later was still just a gleam in a local news channel meteorologist's eye. Newly liberated rays of sunshine danced on the Hudson, a fine mist rose from the road, and I felt indefatigable--in fact, I reveled in a fantasy that I was riding myself into the maillot à pois until I was passed by a pair of aging power walkers.

Speaking of precipitation and bicycling, when you're an internationally renowned bike blogger it's crucial to have a dedicated "rain bike"--you know, something you ride hard (or in my case, ride daintily) and then put away wet. Well, with all the rain we had last week I naturally looked first to my "rain bike," but when I took it out the chain looked like this:

When confronted with the above, most people would simply pronounce the chain dead and replace it. I am not most people. First, I attempted to open the quick link thingy, which ordinarily requires but a thumb and forefinger. No success. (I took the above photo after my initial struggle.) So I bathed the quick link thingy with penetrating lubricant, and after worrying at it with both hand and pliers I was eventually able to remove the chain from the bicycle. Next I put the chain in a plastic bottle, which I then filled with solvent. Then, I went to the subway station, placed an empty coffee can at my feet, and shook the bottle like this:

By the time I was finished, not only was my chain clean**, but I'd made almost six bucks.

**[Chain is not remotely clean by roadie standards, but it works now.]

And that's why I don't use white bar tape.

I do take (slightly) better care of my other bicycles though, and here's the one I rode yesterday mere moments after I hosed all the fun off of it:

(Drive side bicycle photography is for woosies.)

I didn't use a pressure washer, nor did I aim it directly at the bearings, because every time you do that Lennard Zinn misses a shift.***

What? You didn't know ayahuasca freakouts were the hot new thing now? Where have you been?!? Not in Bushwick, obviously:

On a recent Friday night, a dozen seekers in loosefitting attire, most in their 20s and 30s, climbed a flight of steps of a mixed-used community space in Bushwick, Brooklyn. After arranging yoga mats and blankets on the floor, they each paid $150, listened to a Colombian shaman and his assistant welcome them in Spanish and English, signed a disclaimer, and accepted large plastic takeout-style containers for vomiting.

Uh, not for nothing, but there are other powerful hallucinogens that don't make you vomit. Sure, they might make your brain feel like a plastic bag stuck in an 11-speed cassette, but at least your tummy will be just fine. Also, why pay a shaman $150 when your sober college roommate who's got a big test tomorrow will happily distract you from burning the entire dorm down by occasionally waving a glow stick in front of your face for free?

Of course, the difference here is that this isn't about just tripping balls. No, ayahuasca is artisanal tripping balls. Therefore, it's important to emerge on the other side with a mundane epiphany:

“It’s as though a lens has been dropped over my vision, giving me heightened self-awareness and emotional intelligence,” she wrote of her own experience. The outcome? A realization that the extensive to-do lists she carries are an absurd manifestation of anxiety.

Wow, she needed to trip her face off to figure that out? That's almost as ridiculous as my needing a a shaman to tell me that seven years of compulsive blogging is the product of profound insecurity.

This isn't to say I don't think hallucinogens can offer meaningful insight under the right circumstances, or that there's anything wrong with seeking these experiences out. On the contrary, I think it's perfectly fine, just as long as you go about it in a responsible fashion, like these people clearly are:

Not long after that, the shaman and his assistant awakened her and the rest of the group, including a young couple with a baby, to the light of a Brooklyn morning.

Wow. Here's a Father's Day ephiphany for you: next time you want to trip your face off maybe skip the shaman, pay a sitter instead, and leave the baby at home.

“The message that bike-share is increasing head injuries is not true,” Teschke told Streetsblog. “The tone of the article suggests that head injuries go up. Really what is happening is that head injuries went down, non-head injuries went down — but non-head injuries went down more.”

You shouldn't need a cup of cosmic tea to figure out you're being brainwashed.

Indeed the snake is alive, though fairly skinny and likely hungry. It is a Rat Snake. They do not prey on bikers at least up until now. I have a seven foot female that likes to come check out my front porch. She is usually looking for bird eggs.

Moved a few weeks ago to the bucolic wonders of Nazareth, PA. Had a lot of leftover furniture and stuff that I put by the road with a free stuff sign. Everything was taken including a bedside table, a sofa table, a homemade MDX bookcase and several very ugly posters. What was left til the very end? A poster of Lance Armstrong. Poor lance gets no respect in the hood.

I've never understood the whole druggie wisdom/epiphany facade. If you have to put drugs in your body to feel wise, isn't the wisdom in the drug, and not you? And the inconvenient fact that you have to KEEP TAKING IT to bring the wisdom back doesn't seem to bother many folks. There are wise people in the world. You can generally tell who they are by the fact that they don't do foolish things, not by oh wow!! tripping their way through life.

Did you ask the snake if it was tripping balls? Those things haul ass across my road. I don't think I've seen one actually just laying there. Of course, unless they have become roadkill, and this one hasn't.

DB -Better, thank you! The staples came out today, so that means I can shower again, which is nice. I've had so much radiation over the last six months that I still have to do the salt/soda detox baths three times a week, but at least I can wash my own hair again, if singlehandedly - my arm still won't go there.

Yeah talk about your "no shit Sherlock" -- I've known my to-do list was a manifestation of anxiety for years now. Namely, the anxiety that I will forget shit. Once you write it down, BOOOSH, no more anxiety.

I'm a fan of: Oil the chain good 'n' sloppy, do the minimum work to get it unstuck, ride it for a day, THEN do the maraca technique to get rid of the rust powder. Call in a favor from your old nemesis Mr. Friction.

Seven years. Wow, where did the time go? Where arwe the snows of yesteryear? (And when the snow melts, where does the white go?).

But seriously snob, we're all friends (except McFly...he makes funny faces when I talk & put donkey piss in my bidon), anyway, it's been a long time & we're (mostly) friends, I think you can tell us what you really do for a living?

I am not a robot, I've entered with 'drawn pythes' (much better than photoshopped pythes)

So is that an example of what happens to bike chains from road salt and whatever else is used on urban NE streets in the winter? That much rust just can't be natural. Rust PEDS involved for certain. And I do appreciate the much improved robot killer captchasAnd RF, can't afford the artisanal huckuachuck, going for the homegrown kind

I was just getting into the habit of reading the blog before posting, now I've got to peruse all the comments...when the chains that rusty (ande knownob left the bakefeets and workman out all winter) you'll reach for some pliers...the fancier the more fun

Ophidiophobia - how it rolls of the tongue. The most common of all phobias, being actually useful. I have an alarmingly low level of it; I like snakes, and apparently they like me. Half a dozen times in my life I've carelessly walked within striking distance of a rattlesnake, and never been struck. But only once did the primitive reptile section of my brain take over and send me helplessly flailing in the opposite direction.

Also, Seven Years in Regret, the story of a Fred who travels to the internet and happens upon a blog written by the "Dalai Lama of Cycling", terrible movie, would not recommend.

By the way, seven years is nothing, NOTHING! Maybe, after 70 years of free, daily funnies we should recognise Snobbo's efforts - before he dies. But until then don't let him feel like he has accomplished anything or he might stop.

You suck Snobbo, but I see you've got it in you, keep trying. You can stop sucking one day if you believe in yourself and keep the dream alive. You have so much potential, so much to offer the world, so far to go, but at the moment you still suck, did I mention that?

"Alas, I've now missed my window, so instead I'll just muddle through as my blogging (programming) career moves into its unfortunate "Radio Shack phase" and I continue to alienate people until I'm reduced to an island of loneliness and regret" .. pretty much sums it up for me http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaGbDRZky-Q

Late comment but snakes do that- get all jagged- when they want to warm up (I'm guessing). I've run into snakes doing that many times and they're fine, they just seem to be trying to get their day started or something. Tip- when they're like that they're often almost in a trance. You could have picked him and he might not have moved at all.

About Me

While I love cycling and embrace it in all its forms, I'm also extremely critical. So I present to you my venting for your amusement and betterment. No offense meant to the critiqued. Always keep riding!